Redemption (9 page)

Moody and Blue

he special game continued, and I played it with Daddy whenever he asked me to. If it made him happy, then I was happy. I didn’t really like it, but the marshmallow cream made it more okay, and he wasn’t physically hurting me. Daddy was just having fun with me, and that made me the lucky daughter. I got more of his love and attention than anyone else in our house. Our time together was a break from all of the other problems. School was still a drag, and if he and Mom weren’t fighting, they were staying away from each other as much as possible. Sometimes they’d get along, but we just never knew what we’d get from one day to the next. The ups and downs in our house in Alhambra were unpredictable.

I wanted everything to be okay. I thought it was normal to sit on my daddy’s lap until 3 a.m. watching TV and talking about what happened at school. I loved listening to him talk; it didn’t even matter what he said. He’d hug me and hold me, and he was all I needed. I could pretend the family was as happy as we were supposed to be when we were together.

Mom was chasing her own happiness. She wanted to work. As long as he was the sole breadwinner, she said she felt weak and powerless. He didn’t support the idea, but he didn’t fight her. As much as they argued, he still loved her and wanted her to be happy. He just didn’t know how to make that happen—or wasn’t able to make it happen. So she decided to enroll in classes at the local college, Southern Illinois University Edwardsville. Even though she had never considered herself smart, she studied full time to be a secretary in a certificate program. She was gone while we were at school, and sometimes when we got home. She made sure we stayed on top of our schoolwork and had healthy food to eat, but her priorities were scattered. She was way busier than she had ever been before.

She didn’t just want to work; she needed to. We didn’t have much money in Alhambra. My classmates acted like we were the rich city folks, but in reality, we lived just like everyone else there, struggling from paycheck to paycheck. My dad was a partner in an actuarial firm, but I don’t think his business was going well. That’s another reason my mom wanted to chip in. She was tired of Grandma Lannert buying her daughters’ clothes and toys.

I didn’t understand the financial problems. They didn’t affect Christy and me because we still had everything we needed. Grandma Lannert bought us anything we asked for. That’s not why I loved her, though. She was a special person to me. Happiness was a trip to her house—every year, we’d go there for a week or two in the summer. Sometimes we’d make it out there on a weekend, too, especially when we lived closer. She’d take us to fancy lunches so we’d feel grown up. She also let us just be kids—kids without arguments and troubles. At her house, we could run around and scream—and eat sugar. The basement and attic were packed with her clothes and scarves, and we were allowed to play dress-up. It was a happy and predictable place, and, best of all, no one raised her voice at Mee Maw’s house. Nothing bad ever happened there.

At home, we had our share of good times, too—surprisingly. Saturday barbecues were the best. Dad would gear up for one all week long, saying things like, “Guess what we’re going to do on Saturday.” He’d be so happy about it, just like a little kid.

The night before, he laid out pork steaks and chicken for him and Mom and chicken legs for Christy and me. Mom went to the grocery store with her list, usually with us in tow. On the day of the cookout, he woke up early and prepared his special sauce with secret ingredients like beer and spices. Then he prepared the grill, layering charcoal briquettes and hunks of hickory that produced the flavor he wanted. When he felt he had the perfect pyre, he lit his creation with lighter fluid. Christy and I ooohed and ahhhed at the big flames.

Mom worked inside preparing potato salad, baked beans, and corn on the cob. We “helped” her until eventually, she sent us back outside to “check on the meat.” When everything was ready, we would sit down like a family. We would eat until our mouths were covered in barbecue sauce. No matter how destructive our family got, the barbecues pulled us back together, filling us with a sense of belonging while cooling our tempers. We reminded ourselves that we loved each other. No matter how bad our storms got, we were all we had to get through them.

Buttercup

ne of the first times I saw Daddy in an all-out rage, we were in Mom’s car. He was loose, loud, and mean. All four of us were coming back from the store or some other mundane afternoon errand. He was nastier than rotten garbage. He cursed all the way to our house, mostly about nothing. I tried not to look at his face; his blue eyes had turned to daggers. We pulled into our long driveway, and my sister’s cat, Buttercup, was lying there waiting for Christy to get home. The cat did that all the time; it loved Christy and wanted to be with her whenever possible. She and I both adored our cats.

He stopped the car about a foot from the animal’s purring body. Buttercup, a typical ridiculous feline, didn’t move. She just flipped her tail.

“That goddamned cat better get outta my way.” My dad was yelling at Christy like it was her fault. She started to cry in the back seat. I felt like crying, too, but I was too scared to say or do anything. Dad barely seemed human at that moment. He stopped and started the car, inching closer to the cat. Even if we had dared to, Christy and I couldn’t get out to help Buttercup. We were stuck in the backseat of Mom’s two-door car. Mom or Dad would have to open the door for us, and they were both sitting dead still.

Dad revved the car engine.

Buttercup just laid there looking hopeful—looking for Christy.

“Stop it, Tom,” Mom yelled. She kept yelling at him. Then I couldn’t hold it back. I started crying, too—loudly.

He raised his voice to all of us. He said, “That fucking cat. I’ll just have to take care of it.”

With those words, we felt a hard, sickening thump underneath the tires. Then he got out of the car and picked up the writhing, dying animal in slow motion. We couldn’t do anything but watch and cry and feel sick to our stomachs. Barron had just died similarly, but this was much worse. Barron was an accident. Our sweet cat hadn’t deserved to go like that. Buttercup bled everywhere as her contorted body writhed uncontrollably. It wasn’t real; it was a horror movie. We could hardly believe it. Our daddy had caused all of this suffering.

He wasn’t any daddy that I knew. This was him in his evil form. This was Tom.

Our mom screamed at him. “How could you do this?” she asked. “What is the matter with you?”

Once she got over her own shock, she ushered us inside and told us everything would be okay. She comforted us the best she could. I don’t know what happened to poor Buttercup, but Tom took care of the mess himself. He disappeared for a few hours. Then around our bedtime, he found us. He hung his head low, and his eyes were bloodshot. He seemed miserable. He apologized for killing Christy’s cat. He wasn’t scary; he was just sorry.

He was Daddy again. Almost.

Scarred

hen I think back on my childhood, I don’t picture fuzzy memories filled with little girls’ rainbows and hearts and jump ropes. Not that I would remember those things anyway. I was more likely to scrape my knees running through the backyard and riding down the driveway than I was to twirl around in skirts. I liked dollies too, but I was happier when I was playing with my pets, bicycle, and books. Nothing was better than hugging my baby sister and sitting on my daddy’s lap. But almost always, the things that caused me the most joy in my life also caused me the most pain. I never knew any differently, and I survived by alternating my realities. I glossed over every bad thing that happened with thoughts of what was still good. I focused on the positives until the bad stuff stopped existing.

That’s how I live with the scar on my left wrist. I used to be ashamed of the bumpy, reddish white line on my left wrist. I was sure everyone could see it, and I thought if someone really looked at it, they would know what had happened to me. They would know it and blame me and hate me for everything. Just a glance would get me antsy. In middle school volleyball, I’d freeze if a girl stared at my wrist for too long. Then I’d realize that she probably didn’t notice my scar at all, and was just keeping her eye on the ball. My scar is in a place that you cannot cover with clothing. The mark is on my wrist but well before you get to my thumb. Clothes don’t cover it. Makeup won’t work on skin branded by heat and fire. If I could’ve hidden it; I would have.

I started wearing a watch on my left hand shortly after I got that scar, kind of covering it but not really. People asked me about the scar—but not nearly as often as I feared. I said I burned myself on a wood-burning stove. Since that time, the scar has transformed itself into a completely different mark. It’s not glaringly obvious like it was years ago. It’s not puffy anymore, and I can get through several days in a row without noticing it. I still know why it’s there. I still know how I got it. I still feel bad when I let my mind linger in the shadows of that basement. But the scar, like the memory, fades. I wouldn’t get rid of it now if I could. It’s part of who I am. It’s a reminder that there is much good in this world, but there is also much to be feared.

On a Saturday afternoon, when I was nine and a half years old, Dad and I met in the basement as usual. I went into the bathroom to spit out the “marshmallow cream.” My father came up behind me as I was bending over the toilet to spit. He grabbed me by the back of my hair and pulled me straight up. Then he pulled my head back.

“Swallow it, you fucking bitch,” he yelled. “Do you think that you are too good to swallow? Swallow it. Now!”

He held his hand over my mouth because I was crying and still trying to spit. He pinched my nose closed. I had no control over my mouth or my nose, and I was struggling to breathe. I swallowed.

“Open your mouth. Show me that it’s gone.” I did as he said except when my mouth opened, I also screamed. I desperately wanted my mother to hear. I needed someone to save me from this sick and crazy mess.

“You little bitch. You’re going to pay for that. You’re a little girl now, but I’m about to make you a woman.” He rushed toward me. He was not a dad I had ever met before. The look in his eyes seared through me, and they told me all I needed to know. Yes, those were Daddy’s eyes, but Daddy was no longer in the basement with me.

I loved Daddy. I didn’t feel anything for this evil man who bullied me. The hatred and disgust in his eyes frightened me. I bolted to my feet and ran.

He caught me in an instant, so I kicked him in his shin and ran to the other door. He recovered quickly and caught me again. He threw me to the ground in front of our wood-burning stove and started to pull off my jeans. I tried to get away, but instead, I burned my left wrist on the stove while flailing my arms. After he got my pants off, he pinned me to the ground. He held me down with one arm and clasped his other hand over my mouth with the other. I couldn’t breathe. My chest was hot and tight. I became dizzy. I couldn’t move, even though my life depended on it.

He jabbed his fingers into me. I was in so much pain. I wriggled. My eyes bugged out.

He smiled.

He smiled again, this time jabbing “his friend” into me. I thought my body was ripping in half. The pain kept getting worse. The feeling of my flesh ripping to shreds went all the way up to my brain. I started going numb in my mind and body. I couldn’t think; I couldn’t feel; he was killing a part of me.

With every jab of his penis, he called me a whore. I experienced pain from the thrusting, heartache from the nasty words in my ear, and suffocation from the strength of his hand that stayed over my mouth. By the grace of God, I passed out. I wouldn’t remember anything while I was unconscious, and that was a blessing.

I woke up a few minutes later. He was zipping his pants and laughing at me. I was lying in blood. It was on my bottom, and I got it on my hands. I started screaming again and scrambled to my feet.

He went into the bathroom, and I ran upstairs to find Momma. I had to get help. I needed to go to the hospital or the doctor or something. I was bleeding, and the pain made walking difficult. How could I make the burning go away? How could I make his voice stop ringing in my ears? Mom was nowhere in the house. I ran to the garage to see if her car was there. It wasn’t. Christy was also gone.

I had no one. No one was going to help me. He had defeated me. I was alone, and he knew I knew it. The only person in the house was a monster. He was not my daddy. I was truly afraid because he was still downstairs.

I hid in the upstairs bathroom, locking the door. I ran the bathwater as hot as I could stand it. I tried to burn his germs off me. I scrubbed and scrubbed until I was raw, but I still felt filthy dirty. I positioned myself under the faucet trying to heal the parts of myself that he had just defiled. Eventually, I realized that I was burning myself down there and turned on the cold water. No matter what I did, it burned and burned.

After an hour, I’d had enough. I walked out of the bathroom, still terrified. He was standing there waiting. He was dressed, looking like nothing had happened. I clutched my towel for dear life, not wanting him to see my body. He was a stranger; he was the devil.

“You are mine; you will do what I want; and you will never tell anyone what happened today.” I didn’t recognize his voice; its depth was alarming. “I’ll kill you. Do you understand? Do you?!” He spat at me with his nasty words.

I just looked at him. My knuckles were white from holding my towel.

“Your mom doesn’t care,” he said. “She wasn’t here to help you, was she?
Was she?
”

I shook my head no. He was breathing heavily. My heart was racing; I was scared of what he’d do next if I didn’t answer. I uttered the word
no
.

“That’s because she doesn’t love you. She never did, and she never will.” He was yelling, but not as loudly. “If you tell her, she won’t believe you. You’re only a kid, and she’ll hate you for lying.”

Then he bent down to my eye level and added, “If you ever tell
anyone
, I will find out about it. And then I will kill you.” Then he snapped his fingers in my ear as he added, “Just like that.”

He walked away, and I went into my room. I lay down. I cried. I couldn’t figure out exactly what I had done to deserve such a harsh punishment. I didn’t know why this man hated me so much, and I wondered if he would ever love me again. I couldn’t understand why my mother didn’t love me either. What had I done? I was bad. I had been real, real bad. I didn’t want to be bad anymore. I didn’t want to be good either. I didn’t want to be anything.

I went outside to find my dog, Prince. I held on to him. He licked the tears from my face while I talked to him. He knew what happened, and he wouldn’t tell anyone. He would never leave me when I needed him most. He would love me no matter how terrible a daughter I had been.

That night, I slept with an ice-cold washcloth between my legs. It quickly became stained with blood. I fell asleep as I prayed to God. The next day, my prayers had not been answered because I was still breathing.